The Rise and Fall of Inspector Reid
by elfmaiden4legs
Summary: It all begins with an innocent tumble down a flight of stone steps at the docks. Little do Drake and Jackson know that soon they'll see Inspector Reid fighting for his life! All three of my old 'RS' stories, 'How Hard the Inspector Falls', 'A Dental Dilemma', and 'You See Before You a Man on the Brink' have also all been absorbed into this one!


Homer Jackson wasn't a bad man – he'd be the first to hold his hands up and confess to the fact that he'd done some bad things in his time – most of them as a man named Matthew Judge who'd died in what now felt like another lifetime, and a long time ago – but he didn't believe that anything he'd ever done made him a bad man. He'd taken a few lives in his time, men who'd taken many more than he, and wouldn't have thought twice about shooting him dead – it had been a kill or be kill world from which Susan and he had come, but he'd never taken the life of anyone he could say genuinely hadn't deserved it.

He'd once been a man in charge of his own destiny, living by his wits in a cut throat world, and scratching a living by questionable means on the wrong side of the law. He'd come a long way from the poor, but highly resourceful medical student he'd once been, and nobody could have predicted how his life would turn out.

He'd once been a Pinkerton, and a king in charge of his own empire of men – men he'd once classed as friends but who he'd quickly learnt could never be trusted not to stab him in the back as soon as their own pathetic lives depended on it. The thought that he'd once been a part of such a world now made him sick – but here in London Homer Jackson was a man living on the very fringes of society. Being the husband of a prostitute with a taste for strong liqueur, tobacco and a fancy for the ladies Inspector Reid should have been the very last person he could have expected to strike up a friendship with – but Reid had seen something he liked in the street-wise, straight talking American, and for his own part Jackson quite liked the Inspector too. He'd given him a job when nobody else would, a respectable position where he could put to good use the tightly honed skills of his medical degree, and despite Susan's evident mistrust of the Detective Inspector Jackson was grateful for that.

It was getting dark outside, and after sewing up and stitching back together his final corpse of the day the young doctor rinsed his hands in a bowl of cold water he kept next to the autopsy table for such a purpose, watching the water turn red before him, before drying them on a scrap of course muslin, and throwing his jacket over his shoulders. The weather had turned distinctly cold over the past few evenings and there was a bitter chill in the air. Jackson wanted to get home as soon as possible tonight, spurred on by the thought of a hot bath to wash away the cake of grime and a soft, warm body to cuddle up to he locked the medical lab behind him as he left and was just about to set foot out into the still busy and untameable London streets outside – savouring the thick smoke and the smell of meat cooking from somewhere nearby on the air – when a voice called out to him from behind.

"Oi, Jackson, we need you…"

The young American sighed – Drake – he'd know that rich cockney tone if he heard it from a mile away. Reid's Sergeant didn't approve of the Inspector's choice of doctor, and just as Inspector Reid's fondness of the man was reciprocated by the young American Jackson wasn't overly fond of Sergeant Drake either. He too had grown up on the darker side of London's streets, and was far too handy with his fists – spilling blood as though it were little more than cold water bleeding from frozen veins.

"Another body?" Jackson asked, trying his best to appear as disinterested as possible. The dead weren't going anywhere – another body could wait until morning, and such a time when Jackson had had the chance to get a good night's sleep – but as he turned to face him something within the older man's eyes made him revise his tone.

Drake's cheeks were flushed deep red, his face glistened in the candle-lit reception, and his hair was plastered to the top of his head with sweat - one side of his face looked slightly swollen, but maybe that was just a trick of the candle-light Jackson thought.

"No," The Sergeant shook his head, as he took a handkerchief from his coat pocket to mop the sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck. "This time it's Reid." He explained. "We were making an arrest down at the docks when he took a tumble down a flight of stone steps – nearly ended up in the Thames."

"Is he alright?" Jackson asked.

"A little shaken," The Sergeant explained, "rather bruised and still bleeding a little. I think you could say that he's had better days."

Jackson sighed – he still didn't see why the Inspector should require his services at this later hour, and especially for what sounded as though amounted to little more than a few cuts and bruises. He was sure that Reid must have sustained far worse in the line of his duty in the past, and that Mrs Reid must surely have been more than capable of tending to her husband's superficial flesh wounds at home.

It was then however that Jackson remembered – Emily Reid was gone, locked up in some God forsaken asylum, her body so damaged by the alcohol she had used to numb the pain of their missing daughter that it was unlikely she would ever leave the place alive, and there was something – perhaps a faint flicker of unease – in the Sergeant's marginally alarmed expression which concerned him.

"How bad?" He asked.

"I think you'd better see for yourself."

Jackson then followed Drake through the maze of dank and darkened corridors – most of the small offices and overcrowded workrooms leading off on either side lit by oppressing candle-light, but Jackson didn't mind the gloom, there was something comforting about the claustrophobia of the place. The darkness reminded him of home.

The door to Reid's office had been left slightly ajar, and as Drake came to a stop outside he stepped aside to allow Jackson to enter first. Inside the small room was lit by a single candle upon Reid's desk, casting an eerie glow over everything the light touched, and the air was warm and heavy. It caught in Jackson's throat as he entered and made him cough.

Reid was sat behind his desk nursing a deep cut to his temple, with the other hand gripping at his left shoulder. His jacket was slung over the back of the seat behind him, and his shirt was dishevelled and stained with blood. As they both entered he looked up, and regarded the two men with a pained grimace.

"Drake," He spoke, and as he addressed his Sergeant Jackson noticed that his voice shook slightly. "I told you I'm fine. Jackson thank you," he added, turning now to the young American doctor, "but I don't require your assistance."

"Let me be the judge of that hey Reid." Jackson smiled, as he edged his way a little further into the Inspector's office, and allowed Drake to squeeze in behind him. The door creaked as the Sergeant closed it behind them.

Jackson did his best to put the Inspector at ease, but it wasn't easy. As a surgeon in the American Army his role had been to preserve life, not to mollycoddle his patients with false hope and promises, and the dead were certainly beyond reassurances, but he always had a tender way with the ladies, and he tried to draw upon what little bedside manner he did have now.

"I really do think it would be for the best sir." Sergeant Drake frowned, the concern he clearly felt written all over his weary-worn face.

As he approached Reid's desk Jackson noticed that the Inspector was shaking – the slight tremor of his limbs had been barely perceptible from their position in the doorway, but as he slowly closed the distance between them he could observe the deep grey of the Detective's pale skin, and the thin sheen of perspiration upon his top lip and forehead as it glistened in the meagre light of the room. His nails bore into the bloodied flesh of his left shoulder, and his knuckles turned white as he massaged an injury which Jackson could not yet see.

He turned back to Drake – instructing him on what supplies he needed brought from the medical room, and when the Sergeant had left turned back to Reid.

"Are you in pain?" He asked, stepping up to the Detective's side, and kneeling down in front of him to get a better look at his injuries – there was a graze to his cheek, as well as the deep gash to his forehead, and a tear in the elbow of his shirt revealing more bloodied flesh beneath, but it was the shoulder which appeared to be causing the Inspector the most pain.

"Let me take a look Reid…" He asked of him gently, removing the man's hands from his temple and inspecting the gash carefully. His fingers gently probed the wound, and as they did so he removed a clean handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away some of the blood and apply pressure to the wound to stem the rest of the bleeding.

Reid let out a hiss – his teeth meeting in a pained grimace.

"Sorry." Jackson apologised – taking one look at the Inspector and deciding that he didn't like the colour of his complexion. The Inspector's skin was so pale it appeared almost opaque in the dim light, but his cheeks were flushed a deep crimson red.

"Keep the pressure on that." He advised, replacing his hand holding the handkerchief to the Inspector's forehead with the man's own. "I'm afraid when Drake gets back that's going to need stitching."

He then turned his attention to the shoulder.

"No." Reid pleaded with him as Jackson began to undo the first few buttons of the Inspector's bloodied shirt, when his hands were abruptly batted away. "Please." He implored him. "Don't."

But Jackson remained undeterred.

"What are you hiding Reid?" He frowned, as he pulled the arm of the Inspector's frayed shirt back to reveal the mass of mottled scar tissue beneath – and the young doctor immediately recoiled with surprise.

As he did Drake returned with the gauze, the thread, and a small vial of opiate which Jackson had asked him for. He stood in the open doorway, mouth hanging slightly open with shock as he observed the Inspector's mangled shoulder. In the dim candle light of the room the lone flame cast dark shadows across the narrow walls and low ceiling making the office appear smaller in size than it actually was, and the Inspector's body appeared as one large bruise as he too was cast in its eerie glow.

"Bloody hell Sir." He exclaimed.

"Close your mouth Sergeant." Jackson reproved him as he recovered himself quickly and returned to assessing Reid's injuries and inspecting the old and only partially healed wound. "You look like your attempting to catch flies."

The young American doctor was not himself officially in the employ of the East London constabulary and so had no hesitations about making his dislike of the Sergeant known. He could get away with it when others might not.

Reid flinched as the doctor's fingers retuned to probe the old wound and the skin seared, despite the fact that Jackson was obviously doing his best to keep his touch as gentle as possible – his fingers barely skimming over the flesh.

Drake shot the American an angry glance as he stepped forward to place the requested medical supplies upon the Inspector's desk, lingering there for only a moment before taking a step back towards the open doorway to give the two men some space. For a moment he'd looked as though he might have been about to react to the American's reproach, but had thought better of it.

"That hasn't just happened as a result of the fall tonight has it sir?" He asked, "It's been so long since I saw the wound… it's a great deal worse than I remember it being."

Jackson shook his head.

"No." The doctor turned to him in response, before turning back to Reid – who apart from his initial protests had remained silent throughout the course of Jackson's examination.

"That's a nasty scar you've got there Inspector." He sighed sympathetically. Although he himself had been in London at the time Reid had come by his injury, and had read about the boat accident in the papers the day following, he had himself not yet made acquaintance with the Detective Inspector at the time of its happening. He had however heard of how Reid had spent weeks in the London Hospital following the tragedy, teetering on the very brink of death, and had seen the mangled mass of crushed bone and thick scar tissue from a distance – but nothing, not even the fleeting glimpses he'd caught of the mottled and pitted flesh, could have done justice to quite how bad it appeared up close.

"Does it hurt?" He asked.

"It aches all the time." Reid sighed.

Jackson nodded. With an injury as severe as this had obviously once been it was unlikely that he would ever fully recover, and he'd probably suffer from some residual pain for the rest of his life. The bone felt grainy beneath his fingers where the small fragments of crushed ossein and cartilage had failed to heal correctly, and the tissue had become a solid, heavily scared and clearly painful mound of damaged flesh.

Seeing the wound again up close after all this time brought back memories of that horrific day which Drake had long thought deeply repressed. He had come closer to losing his best friend than he would ever have liked to allow himself to believe. Reid had barely survived the ordeal, but once he had recovered sufficiently to be discharged from the hospital he had managed to convince himself that the Detective Inspector had never really been in any real danger of dying. His thoughts however had been troubled for a long time as he grieved for the loss of the Reid's daughter Matilda – the little girl he'd known from the very day Emily had brought her into the world, who'd known him affectionately as Uncle Ben for as long as she's been able to talk, and who he'd taken to buy Strawberry ices on Petticoat Lane every Sunday.

Jackson then set about gently cleaning the surrounding tissue and stitching up the deep gash to Reid's forehead – as he did so Drake discretely discharged himself before the surgeon moved on to inspect the rest of the Inspector's injuries and bind some of the worst with gauze bandage. There was another deep graze to the side of Reid's leg where the stone had taken away the top layer of skin, leaving tiny grains of dark gravel embedded in the wound, and the palms of his hands were quite badly bloodied.

"I suppose you're curious to know how I came by such an injury." Reid asked him through tightly gritted teeth, as Jackson finished bandaging his hands, and started dabbing as some of the more superficial wounds with a damp cloth, soaked in an antiseptic solution. He seemed unaware that Jackson already knew most of what had befallen him and his little girl that day.

"We all have our secrets Reid. You don't care to know about my past, and I won't ask to know about yours." He said as he finished tending to the various injuries and tossed the cloth soaked in the foul smelling liquid aside, before rinsing his hands and handing the Inspector the small vial of milky brown liquid from the centre of the table. "Here, take this." He advised.

Reid looked at him – recognising the bottle as opiate immediately he was quick to reject the medication, having terrible memories of the drug in the hospital.

"Thank you Jackson." He shook his head, knocking the other man's dripping hand away, and watching as the small glass vial almost slipped through the doctor's slick fingers. Thankfully Jackson managed to re-establish his grip before it slipped from his hand, and spilt its repugnant contents all over the floor of Reid's office.

"Sorry." Reid apologised – he might not have been able to stand the drug, but even so he realised that it was too expensive a medication to waste. Everything was so expensive these days, and resources seemed few and far between. "But it dulls the mind…" He explained. "I don't like how it makes me feel... never have. I need my brain alert in order to work."

Evidently this hadn't been the Inspector's first experience of opium then Jackson thought - he'd always wondered why he appeared so apprised to it.

"A couple of drops won't be enough to put you to sleep Reid." He reassured him, refusing to take the vial as he handed it to him once again and the Inspector offered it back to him. "It's just enough to take the edge off the pain. I've done what I can for now, but there's nothing I can do for the shoulder I'm afraid."

Reid looked at him sceptically, but seeming to take in the concern in the other man's bright blue eyes he seemed to waver.

Jackson held his gaze until finally the Inspector reluctantly uncapped the small bottle and took a couple of small swigs from the vial. Tiny droplets of blood still oozed out from between the small, neat stitches keeping the deep gash upon Reid's temple closed, congealing as it dried in the warm air of the office, and gluing the two raw edges of gaping flesh together in its own fluid.

"You're a good man Jackson." He smiled his thanks, as he handed the bottle back to the surgeon. "Thank you."

Jackson shrugged. "Maybe." He said. "But I'm afraid I lied about the opiate, very soon you won't be able to resist the urge to sleep."

"I know." Reid nodded. "But you've seen us all right up until now Captain. I trust you."

Jackson simply nodded.

 **RIPPERSTREET**

Meanwhile Sergeant Drake had returned to his own desk. Having left Reid in the very capable hands of the Captain his attentions now returned to a suffering, in kind, of his own. He held a hand to his cheek in order to try and stem the throbbing pain in his swollen gum and ran his tongue across the surface of a cracked molar as he tried to ignore the sharp surge of pain this produced. He'd received the blow which had caused the damage nearly a week since but hadn't had the courage to tell anyone about it, and he'd already developed a swelling which oozed infection, and had barred him from eating and drinking for the past few days.

He'd watched longingly from his desk as he'd observed Jackson's comings and goings from Reid's office all day, but had told himself that he'd sooner lose all of his teeth to a mouthful of infection than admit to any sort of weakness in front of the Yankee doctor.

Instead he'd tried to absorb himself in his work, and to forget about the ache in his cheek and the explosive pressure of the infection building up just below the gum line. He'd tried to focus on reading, and signing off and filing reports, but all with very little success, and in the end his only solace to be found had come in the form of the debauched Whitechapel streets, paved with filth, and the intoxicated, sweat soaked bodies of its own poor wretches, as he and Reid went in pursuit of their suspect.

The thrill of the chase had been exactly what he'd needed to take his mind off the pain, until the same man who'd been responsible for the Inspector's fall had thrown a punch in his general direction and struck him square on the most painful side of his jaw. The intense throbbing this had incited from the infected gum had been almost unbearable, like a knife being driven into the cavity of the broken tooth - but he'd managed to put his own pain to one side as soon as he'd seen how badly his fried too had been injured.

Seeing how gently Jackson had handled Reid had made him revaluate his opinions of the young American doctor however, and he now waited patiently for him to finish tending to the Detective Inspector and leave Reid's office before waiting a couple of minutes and making his way in the direction of the mortuary, despite his better judgement.

Drake didn't knock but, hand still clasped tightly to his injured face, entered without announcement and was relieved to find Jackson not in the middle of another autopsy, but instead writing up a report. The Sergeant hadn't fancied washing his own mouth out with a dead man's blood, but had been concerned that if the man felt sufficiently inclined to stay a little later than usual, owing to the evening's turn of events, there would be little else to occupy his time whilst Reid slept the effects of the opiate off fitfully in his office.

He coughed weakly to announce his presence, and as Jackson turned to look up from his desk he observed his visitor with an amused and slightly crooked smile.

"Well Sergeant Drake..." He drawled in his thick American accent. "Have you not gone home yet? Two visits in one night? I must ask you to what ends I am owed this honour? Reid is sleeping now, and shall be for a good few hours yet I shouldn't wonder."

"No sarcastic hurts please Jackson." Drake implored, and held up a hand in order to try and silence him. "It is I who now need your help."

Jackson took one look at the man standing before him, at the hand clutching tightly to the one side of his face - the side which had barely an hour since appeared swollen in the candlelight - at the pallor of his complexion and the contrasting flush of his cheeks, and his hair plastered to his forehead with a sweat indicative of a slight fever, and appeared to soften slightly.

He nodded, handing Drake the same small vial of opiate from which Reid had just taken his fill. The Sergeant took a grateful swig in order to try and kill the pain.

"I'll see what I can do for you." Jackson finally agreed.

He indicated to the Sergeant to sit, and reluctantly Drake found himself then seated in the doctor's own chair.

"There seems to be a great demand for your services tonight." He remarked.

"Yeah, aren't I the lucky one." Jackson retorted sarcastically as he set to work.

 **RIPPERSTREET**

Half an hour later the Sergeant found himself spitting blood as he swigged from a tankard of water Jackson had handed him. The opiate had for the moment taken the edge off his pain, but his gum still throbbed viciously, and in the minutes the doctor had spent examining the extent of his swollen mouth there had been very little indication that there was anything more he could do.

"You've left that tooth far too long Sergeant." He explained gravely, as he did his best to clean what he could of the wound without causing the other man too much unnecessarily additional suffering. "There's an abscess and a serious infection which could spread to your blood if you're not careful."

"Can't you just remove it?" Drake asked, whilst wiping the dribble from his chin with the back of his hand, but Jackson shook his head.

"As much as I'd like to," he chuckled to himself in slight amusement, "I don't have the required equipment. I'm afraid this is going to need a specialist's care in order to deal with the infection properly. You need to find yourself a dentist Sergeant."

Drake sighed, this was exactly the situation he'd been hoping to avoid, and Jackson eyed him critically.

"In the meantime I can do my best to treat the pain, and minimise the spread of the infection." He offered, observing the apprehension in the other man's eyes. "That might at least help to make you feel a little more comfortable whilst you decide what to do."

Drake considered Jackson's suggestion suspiciously. What could the American possibly have to gain by offering him help he wondered? The two men hadn't exactly made a secret of their dislike for each other in the past.

He sat, starring up at Jackson, the two men's eyes boring into each other, as both of them waited for the other to back down. This might have in fact gone on forever had it not been for another stab of pain which at that moment shot through the Sergeant's jaw, and which finally made him relent.

He nodded reluctantly.

"Good. I'll write you up a prescription." Jackson conceded, and with that turned his back on the Sergeant and began to write up the note – all he wanted for now was to return home to his beautiful wife, his liquor, and his bed, and he only hoped that his services would not be required again on this evening.

 **RIPPERSTREET**

It was a few days later when Detective Inspector Reid again entered his office and closed the door quietly behind him. The hour was late, and Jackson and Drake had both gone home to their respective wives hours ago, as had most of the rest of the men. The station was now eerily quiet, and only those on the nightshift remained. Reid reproached himself for his envy of those with a home to return to at the end of their working day. He himself hadn't returned to his own in days – the house he had once shared with his wife and little girl felt cold and hollow now that there was no warm body for him to return to at the end of the working day, and when he did return the dark, empty rooms which had once echoed with a child's laughter and given fruit to a marriage born of love only added to his pain.

He cast a weary glance over the papers which littered his desk – reports concerning their latest case – before loosening his tie, stripping off his jacket, and clambering into the makeshift bed he had constructed himself. It wasn't the most comfortable place he had ever slept, but it was at least dry even if it wasn't always warm – somewhere to rest his weary head. It certainly beat aimlessly wandering the soiled streets of London's East End until the early hours of the morning, breathing in the putrid air as he searched in vain for a lodging house upstanding enough to lay his head. The houses which had once played host to Jack the Ripper's unfortunate victims had become his roaming ground.

He grimaced as he struggled to get comfortable. He seemed to be in almost constant pain these days, and he didn't think the hard mattress he'd slept on for the past three nights running could be helping matters much. A dry heat radiated from his forehead - which he felt as he traced the line of stitches - and he failed to suppress a hacking cough. The dull ache in his shoulder had progressed to an intense throbbing prompting a sharp stabbing pain in his neck and head recently, and it frequently made it difficult for him to draw breath. Sometimes it felt as though he were being suffocated by his own pain, but still he bore his burden in silence, giving no clue to the rest of the men as to the true extent of his suffering. His wounds were his penance for being unable to save the life of his own little girl, and like a true upholder of Her Majesty's law he accepted his sentence quietly and without protest.

This time of night was the only time he allowed his sorrow to escape him, and as he failed to suppress another coughing fit, this time more sudden and violent than the last, the tears began to roll down his cheeks, helping to quell some of the heat radiating from his warm skin.

A candle burned slowly upon his desk, casting the small office in an eerie glow, and he watched it flicker as his eyes quickly closed – his eyelids were heavy, and it was only now that Reid suddenly became aware of how incredibly tired he really was. A couple of times he fancied he saw his wife's and little daughter's faces looking back at him from amongst the shadows. They were staring down at him accusingly from above, and he screwed his eyes tightly shut. He didn't want to see their angry faces, he preferred to remember them both as they once were – happy and content with the hand life had dealt them. He burrowed his aching head into the soft pillows – hoping to dispel the hallucination and that it wouldn't take him too long to fall asleep – and as his body sank even deeper into the canvas he shivered, his whole torso momentarily wracked by a violent shaking, although it was neither through cold nor due to fear. His chest ached after a day of trying to keep the act of inhaling and exhaling – which most people seemed to take for granted – slow and even, so as not to aggravate the pain in his shoulder, and he drifted in and out of consciousness in this state for several hours, struggling to take small, shallow breaths.

As the hours ticked by a cold sweat broke out upon his forehead, and the shivers returned. Salty perspiration ran down the back of his neck and plastered stray strands of his dark hair to his forehead before being dried by the warmth of his flesh. The pain in his shoulder became increasingly worse, until no amount of massage would ease the intensity of the sharp ache. His sleep was fitful and plagued by dark dreams. His wife and child were a part of them also, and he cried out as he reached for them both. He watched his daughter slip away from him over and over again, before running from empty room to empty room calling her name. He couldn't allow himself to believe that they had both left him, that he was now alone, and it was in this condition that Sergeant Drake walked in on him – pale and shaking – in the early hours of the morning.

Reid was only partially awake when he first discovered him, but quickly regained consciousness. The Sergeant covered him with a blanket and as Reid began to talk he was relieved to discover that his mind at least appeared rational, but his face remained contorted with pain. He seemed unable to move without it causing him significant discomfort and against the Inspector's protests Drake quickly dispatched a constable to call upon Jackson and insist that he come at once.

Reid continued to speak whilst they waited for the American doctor to arrive – predominantly about the most recent case they'd been working on – but Drake suspected that this was probably due to the embarrassment he felt over being caught in a moment of weakness, and a need to maintain some semblance of normality. His voice was weak however, and he made no attempt to move or sit up.

Drake listened patiently to the Inspector's words. He didn't push him to reveal the nature of what ailed him – he figured that all would be revealed once Jackson arrived – but even so he couldn't help but stifle a sigh of relief as he observed the young constable's return through the Detective Inspector's office window, and heard the disgruntled grumblings of the Captain follow him from not too far behind. Sergeant Drake rose from the seat he had taken at Reid's desk, and as he did so Jackson entered the small office alone – looking a little the worse for wear himself, and evidently unhappy about having been torn from his bed in the middle of the night – and closed the door behind him. His eyes were heavy as though he'd been drinking, which wasn't uncharacteristic of the young American, but his hand was steady and as he noticed Reid lying upon the bed before him his concern became immediately apparent.

"What happened?" He questioned Sergeant Drake as he knelt on the floor at the Inspector's side and gently prised the man's eyelids open to take a look at his pupils and the colour of the flesh inside, before gently massaging the fleshy area either side of the Inspector's jaw bone to check for enlarged glands. This was a standard test to check for any sign of infection, and Jackson was alarmed to discover that they were slightly swollen.

"There is some swelling there." He sighed. "There's infection in his system."

He carried a bag on his person – he had very little use for standard medical supplies throughout the course of his day to day duties, dealing as he predominantly did with the dead and the many corpses which came through the station's doors throughout the course of the normal working day – but being a qualified physician all knew that such a bag must have existed in his possession, even if they didn't get to see it very often, and he placed it down on the floor beside him as the Sergeant shrugged and shook his head.

"I don't know. I just found him like this." Drake explained, and Reid slowly opened his eyes as Jackson carefully placed the back of one cool hand to his warm forehead, and frowned as he felt the heat radiating from the sticky flesh beneath. There was very little distance between the two men and the doctor noticed something sad and appealing within the Detective Inspector's eyes.

"He's very warm." The Captain explained, keeping his voice soft and as hushed as possible so as not to aggravate any pain Reid may or may not have been in as he moved the heels of his palms down to also check the temperature of his cheeks. "But there's no sign of fever… yet. Still," he considered thoughtfully, "it's better to be sure."

He removed a small glass thermometer from the scarred leather bag at his feet and shook it vigorously. Sergeant Drake hadn't had any cause to come into contact with the small implement himself throughout the course of his own life but he understood it to be a relatively recent invention, used for measuring a person's body temperature. He had no clue as to their accuracy, but had heard that they used a small amount of mercury encased within an internal glass tube to take the reading. He also knew that they were still reasonably rare, but that was about the full extent of his knowledge.

"Keep this under your tongue for a few minutes." Jackson explained to Reid as he instructed the Inspector to open his mouth and offered the tiny implement to him, before placing two fingers to his wrist in order to check his pulse – which he noticed was beating much faster than usual and so moved his fingers up to the side of his neck in order to double check his findings. Whilst the thermometer was still taking its reading he then removed a stethoscope from the bag beside him and placed the bell of the instrument to Reid's chest, listening carefully to the sound of his respirations as Drake looked on, failing to disguise his concern.

"His heartbeat is rapid, and his lungs sound a little congested, but there's no real sign of anything too serious." He sighed in relief after a few moments, and as he carefully removed the thermometer from the Inspector's mouth Reid licked his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. "But his temperature is slightly raised." He explained.

"Jackson… morphine… please…" Reid, who had maintained his silence since the doctor's arrival, now spoke weakly through tightly clenched teeth, and Jackson frowned as he wiped the end of the thermometer upon the sleeve cuff of his coat and shook it again to restore the mercury to its original state - knowing full well how much the a Inspector detested the drug, and therefore able to measure the depth of his discomfort.

"Reid, where do you hurt?" Jackson asked as he observed the Inspector's slightly trembling figure, taking note of his pale complexion, rapid heart rate and the heat radiating from his skin – and everything suddenly began to fall into place. Extreme pain could place enormous strain upon the body, and would almost certainly account for every one of the symptoms Reid was now exhibiting. The Captain couldn't understand how he hadn't recognised the man's distress before this night - especially in light of the tumble he had taken a few days previous - and marvelled at the Inspector's evidently enormous capacity for concealing his own pain.

"Shoulder…" Reid gasped as he gritted his teeth and pressed the heal of his own palm into the mottled and damaged flesh concealed beneath several layers of clothing.

"How long has it been since you last slept in a proper bed Reid?" The American wondered out loud as he placed the stethoscope and thermometer back into the bag and prepared a syringe of morphine. Despite his own inclination towards the recreational use of certain narcotic substances the surgeon was sparing in his use of the drug in his professional capacity, which was highly costly and well known for its addictive properties. Laudanum was cheaper and easier to obtain, but not quite so effective at treating severe pain – and it too, as with all opium based drugs, was highly addictive.

The needle was slightly blunt and Reid flinched both visibly and audibly as it punctured both flesh and muscle and he felt the burning sting as it dispersed its contents into the bloodstream. He looked to Jackson and then to Drake with an appeal in his eyes, but his lips remained sealed and silent, and although not renowned for his subtlety the Captain had enough tact and diplomacy to dispatch Drake to fetch a handsome cab, deciding that Reid should return with him to Tenter Street where he could keep a close eye on him, and administer more morphine if he so required it.

"You know Reid," Jackson sighed once Drake had left, "a man knows when something is amiss within his own house. You are already aware that I know Susan has been having your clothes washed and laundered for you, and I suspect that she has been seeing you well fed also. It doesn't take a genius to figure out the reason why, only a man observant enough to recognise the evidence presented before his own eyes."

"You flatter yourself Captain." Reid spoke through clenched teeth. The morphine hadn't yet had enough time to take effect, and he still held his shoulder in a claw-like grasp – turning his knuckles white. "But I won't deny that there is truth in your observations." He confessed.

"There is a room going spare back at the house," Jackson explained, "Ida's place has not yet been filled. I know a tart's boudoir might not exactly be to a Detective Inspector's taste, but the beds are comfortable and the rooms are warm. It would do you good to get some rest in a proper bed for a change, and that morphine is going to wear off after a few hours. You're going to need further medical attention before the night is out."

"The cab's waiting outside sir." Sergeant Drake announced upon his return, and Reid looked from the American, to his Sergeant, and back again. He wasn't sure his pride could take another beating, it was already bruised as a result of having been discovered in a moment of such ugly weakness. His daughter was dead, he'd come to accept the fact now, and his wife was in an asylum – driven to drink and despair by the fact that her husband had been unable to save the life of their little girl.

Inspector Reid was a man himself now on the brink. Finding himself having to be escorted from the premises by the American surgeon, and from there conveyed to the whore house he and his wife Susan called home, might just finish his reputation off with the rest of the men. Even so he was in no position to refuse Jackson's offer of help. He was exhausted, and still in pain, and the prospect of a proper bed for the night – plump pillows and soft, warm sheets laundered in soap – was just too tempting an offer to refuse. He'd surrendered his claim to his dignity the day he had gone to Long Susan and accepted her offer to launder his shirts for him.

Inspector Reid nodded his reluctant thanks. "I don't see that I have much choice but to accept your offer Jackson." He breathed, beginning to feel the first signs of weariness creeping over him and obscuring consciousness as the morphine began to take effect. "But you must understand that I do so reluctantly, although not through any sense of ingratitude."

Jackson nodded. He quite understood the Inspectors meaning.

"Help him sit up Sergeant." He instructed Drake, turning to the rough and ready officer whose own concern was still readable by the troubled expression upon his face, as he himself took the blanket from Reid's still slightly shivering form and began to roll it up. "But be careful not to jar him." He emphasized.

Reid grimaced and extruded a deep moan as he was helped to move, despite the fact that Drake's hold was surprisingly tender and gentle as he grasped the Inspector around the waist and levered him into a sitting position. This action, although small, was enough to set the pain in his shoulder throbbing again and send a sharp shot of lightening like pain down his arm and up into the base of his neck and he found himself unable to even express his thanks to the Sergeant for his help. Instead he sat, fingers boring deep into the mass of crushed bone and scarred flesh he called a shoulder, and breathing heavily as he prayed that the pain would subside again soon.

"What do you think ails him?" Sergeant Drake pulled the American aside meanwhile, and whispered to him out of ear shot of the Detective Inspector.

"We both have seen the mass of crushed bone and mangled tissue Reid's shoulder has become." Jackson sighed. "I have myself often wondered whether it pained him. Scar tissue can be immensely painful… I suppose tonight has given an answer to my question, and us both an insight into the extent of the discomfort he experiences on a daily basis as a result. All I can tell you is that he's been given enough morphine to knock out a wild horse, if he's still hurting then he must have been in a lot of pain before we arrived tonight."

"Excuse me gentlemen," Inspector Reid interjected, and as the two men turned to look at him they observed that he was now standing – but only just – a short distance behind them. He was struggling on with his jacket, and as Sergeant Drake hurried to assist him Reid turned to him and released a pained hiss from between tightly clenched teeth. "Thank you Bennett," he forced a smile, "I am indebted to you for all of your help tonight."

"Don't mention it sir. You'd have done the same for me." Sergeant Drake smiled, and as Jackson approached the two men he thrust the rolled up blanket haphazardly into Drake's arms. The Sergeant caught it but not before aiming a contemptuous look in the ex-Army surgeon's direction. The American then took Reid around the waist and having thrust his un-maimed arm over one shoulder began to guide the Inspector from the room.

"Sergeant Artherton, I'm afraid Inspector Reid has been taken ill." Sergeant Drake explained to the wily man manning the front desk as they both escorted Reid from his office and Jackson accompanied the Inspector outside to the awaiting cab, before returning for the blanket thrust underneath Drake's arm. "Our American friend is taking him home for the night to rest."

"Yes," The Sergeant nodded and released a long sigh, scratching his ginger beard thoughtfully, "I'm afraid I heard that Captain Jackson had been summoned to tend to an officer this night. I must confess my concern for the Inspector when I heard, he didn't look too healthy when I last spoke to him a couple of hours ago."

"Reid will be fine. You just focus on keeping peace in the streets so that we don't all get murdered in our beds." Jackson slurred in his thick native accent as he took the blanket from Drake's arms, before being swallowed up by the dark night.

The American kept a close eye on Reid as he drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the duration of the journey to the brothel. The morphine had done its job, and Jackson covered him over with the blanket in order to keep him warm. He was somewhat worried about how he was going to transfer the sleeping Detective from the cab into the house, and upstairs into the only empty room which remained, but as the cab ricocheted off every bump in the road Reid was shaken unceremoniously back to consciousness and Jackson realised that he was only dozing – the pain in his shoulder preventing him from giving himself over to unconsciousness completely. This was good Jackson thought, he wanted the Inspector to rest, but not until he was comfortably settled back at the house.

The arrival of the Inspector prompted a great deal of curiosity from the girls and they watched with curious eyes as upon their arrival he was helped through the front door and then up the stairs by the Captain and Susan before she set off in search of some spare pyjamas for him – it becoming rapidly quite clear that he couldn't sleep in the suit he was still currently wearing. There wasn't much call for items of spare clothing in their line of work, but she felt sure that there must be some somewhere, and she eventually located a pair which she thought would probably suit the Inspector's size.

Once Reid was finally settled, and between the two of them they'd managed to get him into the bed Jackson then set to work trying to make him as comfortable as possible. He applied alternating cold and heated compresses to cool the inflamed skin and to relax the muscle, and another dose of morphine had finally succeeded in taming the pain. Despite the elevated concentration of opiates in his blood Reid was still refusing to completely relinquish his hold on consciousness however, and through his drowsiness he thought that he had heard Jackson and Susan talking in hushed tones.

"I'd better stay with him tonight." He thought he heard the Captain say to his wife in his distinct American dialect. "I want to keep an eye on him, and he may need more morphine before the night is out."

"What's the matter with him?" He heard Susan ask.

"I'm not sure," Jackson responded. "He's in a lot of pain. There's an old injury to his shoulder and apparently he's been sleeping rough since his wife… well," Reid heard him falter as he touched upon the delicate subject of Emily, "You know the rest," He sighed, "but I'll know more when he's asleep and I've been able to perform a more thorough examination."

Reid didn't really want to fall asleep. In his mind to fall asleep now would just be another sign of weakness in front of the American doctor, but the morphine's growing effect over his exhausted body was just too powerful a force and within the hour he'd lost the will to carry on fighting the effects of the drug. His breathing eventually slowed and became more shallow, and as his eyes closed his grip finally slackened upon his shoulder. Finally his head lolled, and he fell into a deep and restful sleep. His breathing although now much easier was still noisy and wheezy sounding however and despite his earlier doubt after a more thorough examination Jackson suspected that Reid was probably suffering from a mild infection which would clear up after a day or two.

When Reid next awoke the morphine kept him at the periphery of consciousness, but as his senses slowly began to return to him he became vaguely aware of the sensation of cold water running down the sides of his head and soaking into his pillow. His eyelids felt heavy but as he managed to prise them open the figure of Jackson sitting at the foot of his bed loomed into view, and he realised that the soggy cloth dripping water in small pools onto either side of his pillow was in fact a cold compress intended to quell the heat of his burning flesh.

"How are you feeling?" The American asked, as he learnt forwards to remove the damp wash cloth from Reid's forehead, placing the back of his hand against his skin as he did so, and evidently not liking what he found he promptly soaked the cloth in a bowl of cold water at the side of the bed and wrung it out, before replacing it once again. The Inspector gently flexed each of his tender limbs, and although still stiff he was relieved to discover that he was no longer in any pain. His head throbbed and his chest ached, but this was a fair compromise he thought, considering his earlier discomfort.

"A little better. Thank you Jackson." He nodded his thanks to the young American, whom he was quite surprised simply regarded him with raised eyebrows and an uncertain half smile.

"Your fever peaked whilst you were asleep." He revealed – explaining the reason for his concerned expression – and as he lifted a thermometer from the small cabinet at the side of the bed he turned back to look down at the Inspector – his face set serious. Reid watched as he shook the small implement vigorously a couple of times in order to restore the mercury's natural state.

"Here," He offered as he held the small glass thermometer out for Reid, who immediately opened his mouth so that Jackson could slip it under his tongue. "You have a mild chest infection," The physician explained, returning to his position at the foot of the bed, "and I don't think that your lack of proper sleep over the past few evenings can have helped matters much. I'd like you to stay here for the next couple of days so that you can rest, and where I can keep an eye on you."

"Thank you Jackson," The Inspector began to protest through tightly pursed lips, "but…"

The doctor was quick to interject however.

"Reid this could be serious." He implored as he finally removed the thermometer from the Inspector's mouth and took a look at the reading. As he observed the tiny number the mercury had peaked at he sighed and shook his head gravely. "Your body is exhausted and the pain you were in only a couple of hours ago isn't the worst of it. Pain due to injury, no matter how severe, is one thing, I can treat that fairly efficiently with morphine, but a chest infection could kill you if allowed to fester." He sighed. "I'm afraid it's either here or at home, but if there's one thing the past few hours should have taught you it's that you need to be resting and that you're in no fit state to return to work at the moment!"

Inspector Reid regarded him for a moment. His head still throbbed, his chest ached, his throat was already slightly sore, and despite the fact that the morphine had managed to quell much of his earlier discomfort his shoulder still protested viciously with every slight move he made. Finally he had to concede defeat.

He nodded, albeit reluctantly.

"Thank you Jackson." He sighed. "You're a good man."

"Well I wouldn't say that Reid." The American laughed as he rose from his position to toss a couple of extra blocks of coal onto the small fire burning in the corner of the room, and to open the bedroom windows to let some of the cool early morning air into the small space. "You've still only known me a comparatively short amount of time."

"Maybe," Reid conceded, "but the past doesn't matter, it's in the past. I know you now, and that's enough."

Jackson looked at him curiously, and their eyes met across the room for a moment – this, he wondered, coming from a man who had more to fear from his past than most? But perhaps that gave them a better understanding of each other – and for his own part Jackson was really very fond of Reid. He'd given him a job, and allowed him to practice medicine again after only a very short period of knowing him. He'd placed his trust in a man he barely even knew, and in the time he'd known him Jackson had begun to regard the Inspector as the closest thing to a real friend he'd ever had – and for now that was enough for him too.

 **RIPPERSTREET**

Reid's fever raged for the next couple of days, and although mercifully the infection on his lungs did not progress to pneumonia he slept almost constantly throughout that time - alternating between periods of lucidity and delirium. Jackson barely left Reid's side throughout the following days, apart from the couple of occasions when the Inspector awoke to find that it was Susan who kept vigil at his bedside, and when Jackson finally did return he could smell the earthy aroma of tobacco and the sweet scent of alcohol upon his warm breath.

Jackson later told him that he had been very lucky - the infection on his lungs, which had initially gone unnoticed, would have eventually developed regardless, and would have probably manifested itself as suddenly as it had that night. Without prompt medical intervention it would have most likely developed into pneumonia within a week, and had he not been on hand when the fever peaked Jackson concluded that Reid could probably very well have died.

He was weak for a week after the fever finally broke, barely able to get out of bed, or to eat more than a few mouthfuls of bread at a time, or take a few sips of water. Jackson was seriously concerned about the risk of dehydration, but finally he and Long Susan were able to coax him into partakeing of a light and watery broth, and, even more mercifully he had managed to keep it down. The following day he was sitting up in bed, and a day later he was strong enough to be helped into a seat situated over by the window, which Jackson recommended Long Susan keep open so as to air some of the sickness out of the room. Here Reid spent the late morning and early afternoon reading, absorbed in the books which Drake had brought him from his own private collection - and when Jackson returned at around lunchtime it was to discover that he'd fallen asleep in his chair, an open book upon the floor at his feet where it had slipped from his limp fingers. Reid was no longer so weak that he needed constant twenty-four hour care but he was evidently still a very sick man.

It hadn't been immediately apparent what it was that ailed him, but Jackson had eventually diagnosed a severe case of sudden onset influenza, exasperated by extreme fatigue resulting from the acute and chronic pain caused by the untreated shoulder injury. There came a second and more devastating blow when part way through the second week of his recovery he developed a rash suggestive of typhus however. A new and far more serious fever presented itself as he was struck down by one disease after another, and he was wracked with aches and pain far worse than even those caused by his wounded shoulder. Jackson seriously feared that he would not have strength enough to fight off this new and equally deadly threat so soon after the influenza, and with his lungs still harbouring infection, but either Reid was far stronger than any of them had given him credit for or it was not destined to be such a bad case of typhus – of there was ever such a case – and within another week Reid was strong enough to return home - albeit barely.

He was still incredibly sick and so Jackson moved in with him for a time so that he may continue to care for him. It had been no small feat achievement in finding a cab driver willing to take such a sick man. The doctor theorised, without too much deduction, that he had probably contracted the typhus from one of the many lower end boarding houses he had frequented since his wife had been taken from him. It wasn't too difficult to imagine him as the latest victim of what was only one of many epidemics amongst the poorer communities of Victorian London. The slum areas where most of these boarding houses were located were cest pits, their streets a breeding ground for disease. Reid was lucky, he had people of experience to care for him, who would do everything they could to ensure that he recovered from the terrible infection which had endangered his life. Jackson had seen many far less fortunate in his time, those with not enough money to employ the services of a doctor, die agonising deaths - of cholera, and typhoid fever, small pox, consumption, and influenza and typhus. They had departed from this world alone, writhing in agony, choking for their every last breath, and stinking of the pool of blood and watery excrement in which they lay.

Reid hadn't been spared the violent vomiting spells and bouts of diarrhoea - they had doubled him over with cramps so painful that he couldn't suppress the anguished cries which escaped him - but they were mercifully short lived. It was the aches which plagued him the most. They wracked his bones even after he'd returned home - the disease seeming to settle in his mangled shoulder and leaving him beside himself with the persistent gnawing ache.

Despite his established revulsion for the drug he spent many days on morphine. Jackson injected him with it every few hours, and was able to justify going against what he knew Reid would have wanted when he'd seen the difference it had made to the Inspector's condition. The opium kept him sedated, and therefore to a certain degree comfortable - without it he writhed and cried out in his sleep, every move caused him to whimper, and his rest was broken and disturbed at best. He writhed with pain, which only resulted in more pain - it was a vicious cycle - but with it he slept through the night.

It seemed so cruel, that Reid should contract both typhus and influenza, one so soon after the other. Jackson had theorised that he must have come into contact with the typhus only days after being exposed to the flu. Given the streets and boarding houses he'd been frequenting of late, whose conditions were likely to have been less than sanitary, this was not wholly unexpected, but together these two diseases were more likely to be seen amongst the poorer communities of the city where filth cladden streets and poor sanitation were a breeding ground for poisonous air. Jackson realised all too well that disease did not discriminate, but they were not in the grip of an epidemic of either - he knew of no more cases having been reported than was usual. Reid was not a rich man - a Detective Inspector's salary did not stretch to a big house, fine dining and fitted suits - but he was not a poor man either. The only way he could have come into contact with both diseases at around the same time would have been to frequent an area of the city where both were actively rife. Unfortunately Jackson realised that the chances of them narrowing down the exact area and the precise boarding house where he would have in all likelihood contracted the two diseases were slender at best.

He'd known that he'd been reluctant to return home - to the place he'd spent the best part of the past few weeks trying to avoid - but as much as the brothel had been a better alternative to any one of these lodging houses it was still a place where disease was an ever present threat, and not a long term shelter for a man as sick as Reid. As much as he and Susan saw that the girls were looked after as best they could, and saw to it that they were not hurt physically whilst under their protection, their home was a place of business and as such they couldn't afford to be choosy over the calibre of their clients. If a man had the means for even an hour of a girl's time then a paupers pay was as good as that of any gent. The girls were fed, and sheltered, Jackson tended their ills, and no man was ever allowed to raise a hand to them whilst they were under their roof, but they could not prevent disease from finding its way into their home. It could be brought in off the streets on the shoes of a gentleman or carried on the breath of a pauper. As soon as he was recovered enough to spend a few hours in his chair by the window each day, and fit enough to move about his room unaided Jackson had been insistent that the best place for him to contue his recuperation was at home, where exposure to further infection could be minimised - but once their his condition, which prior to them having moved him had seemed a little improved, rapidly began to deteriorate once again. The shock of moving him was too great a strain for his weakened body so soon after such a serious illness, and the day after his return to the home he had spent so long trying to avoid, he had taken to the bed which he had once shared with a wife - whose mind had now completely left her and so whose body may as well have lay cold beneath the earth for all the good it now did him to call her 'wife' - and he had lapsed into a fevered sleep.

Jackson had initially instructed Drake to stay away - having no idea what it was which ailed the Detective Inspector - and he quickly began to doubt whether it was just influenza and typhus alone which had rendered him confined to his bed. As the days had passed them by however, and Reid had continued to linger - his condition no worse, but showing no sign of improvement - he had come to the conclusion that the company of an old friend would at the very least do little to make things any worse, and could help to raise his spirits. He couldn't be sure, but he didn't think him likely to be contagious anymore. Jackson himself had been the guinea pig, and had spent several days routed to Reid's beside. The diarrhoea and vomiting had ceased long before he'd moved him - to have considered to have done so before would have spelled him an almost certain death. Although the fact that Jackson had spent so long in Reid's company and had, as yet, shown no sign of disease didn't necessarily mean that the danger had passed - for, as a doctor, he was bound to have developed some resistance to the sickness over the years - he was sufficiently reassured that Drake would be relatively safe now, and in no more danger than he was of contracting any one of the other horrific diseases which were rife amongst the poverty stricken streets of Whitechapel, throughout the course of his day to day duties. Just to play it safe though it would be advisable that he keep a respectable distance whilst the fever still raged within Reid.

"How is the tooth Sergeant?" Jackson asked, without looking up, as the Sergeant entered the small bedroom barely half an hour after he'd sent for him. Reid and he were friends of old. Jackson knew that the Detective Inspector meant a great deal to him and so had suspected that it wouldn't take long for him to make an appearance after he'd given him the all clear to visit.

"Gone. As of last Friday morning." Drake explained, removing his hat as a mark of respect and beginning to make his way cautiously forward.

"You still look a might pale." Jackson observed as the Sergeant appeared beside him and he observed the white of his complexion in the candlelight of the room. "How have you continued to care for it?" He pressed him.

"I am rubbing honey and vinegar into the cavity and the gum line twice a day." Drake explained, his hand reaching instinctively up towards his jaw to rub at it gently – reminded of the persistent, sharp ache which had plagued him these past couple of weeks, and which still had not left him even now, despite the loss of his tooth. "Hurts like hell but it seems to have done the trick so far. There is no more infection." He said.

"Then I think you are past the danger point." Jackson nodded, and returned to watching Reid.

"How's he doing?" Drake asked, noticing as he approached that Reid was not asleep as he had initially thought when he had first entered the room. His eyes fluttered erratically - open and then closed – and he murmured inaudibly. The sergeant noticed that the surgeon had recently applied a cold compress to his forehead to try and tame the fever, and it glistened and dribbled in the spotlight of the dancing flames.

"No worse, thankfully, but still no sign of improvement." Jackson sighed as he took another long drag on his cigarette. "I don't think he's contagious anymore, but I would advise you to keep your distance all the same... of course," he added, with a crooked smile "that is only my advice as a surgeon, as a friend I bid you to decide for yourself."

"I'm willing to take the risk if you're willing to let me, if it's all the same to you." Drake said, as he took another step towards Reid's bedside, and leaned over his friend. He was careful not to breathe the man's breath as he took in the sweat upon his brow, his rosy cheeks and sunken eyes.

Reid's eyes opened as he felt the extra presence in the room.

"Bennett…" He whispered, as recognition dawned on him, but then his eyes appeared to glaze over and began to close again.

"What can I do to help?" Drake asked, turning back to Jackson.

"Just talk to him." The surgeon told him – there was really nothing more anybody could do. He'd given him morphine for his pain, but Reid's apparent lack of fight was causing Jackson the most concern. "I have tried but all I seem to get out of him are confused mumblings. Physically he is weak, but he should have started to show some signs of improvement by now. With the exception of the fever I can find nothing physical to account for his state, apart from his apparent unwillingness to take food or water. He just seems to have given up." He explained.

Drake looked down at Reid, and back up at Jackson in disbelief. He couldn't believe what he was hearing – the Ripper himself hadn't broken him despite the hours he'd sacrificed in trying to find him, not to mention his health. Painful months of rehabilitation hadn't managed to crush his resolve, and he'd even managed to hold onto the hope that his daughter – perhaps not lost after all – would someday return to him. He was the strongest, bravest, most dogmatic man Sergeant Drake had ever met – he'd had to be to have endured what he'd had to in the last couple of years alone, and survive. Surely it couldn't be true that he was going to let this house – which had once echoed with the sound of a child's laughter and been a happy home for the family of three – break him now.

"No…" He breathed.

"If he doesn't start taking in some fluids soon he's not going to be able to last much longer." Jackson told him gravely.

"Has he taken nothing?" Drake asked, and the surgeon shook his head.

"We managed to get him to take some broth a few days ago," Jackson explained, "before we moved him here. He seemed to be showing some signs of improvement – but he since seems to have lost what little appetite he'd gained back. He's taken nothing but a few sips of water in the past few days."

"It's this place…" Drake sighed, looking about the room - at its four dark walls, at the photographs which served as a constant reminder of their happier times – as the candlelight cast ominous shadows across the ceiling above them. "If I was a more superstitious man I'd say it was a curse."

"A house can become a home Drake, but it's bricks and mortar, nothing more at the end of the day." The American slurred as got to his feet, and indicated towards his vacated chair for the Sergeant to sit. "Let's not lose our heads here to conjecture and superstition. We need to start getting some fluids into him otherwise he's not going to make it – let's just focus on that for the moment shall we?"

"Mr Reid... Edmund..." Drake said, dragging the chair closer to Reid's bedside as he sat down and leaning over him until his face was close enough to his to see his friend looking up at him through sad and tired eyes. "I come now not as your sergeant, but as your friend." He implored. "Your wife is gone, but you cannot allow this melancholy to consume you. Your little girl has lost her mother, she will need her father at least if she were to return."

"My little girl is gone sergeant! She died!" Reid whispered – tears glistening in his eyes, but Drake was unsure whether this was to do with the despair which had evidently taken root within his heart, or the smoke from the candlelight and Jackson's cigarette which had begun to accumulate unpleasantly in the atmosphere – making the air thick and acrid.

"We cannot know that for certain." Drake shook his head – refusing to believe that his best friend had finally given up. He hadn't before in all the years he'd known him. The past couple of years hadn't been easy – Reid had stumbled many a time on his long road to recovery, but nothing had managed to keep him down for very long, and he'd never completely lost hope that one day he might be reunited with his daughter Matilda. The double whammy of influenza and then typhus seemed to have stripped him of what very little strength he'd had left.

"I cannot feel her anymore." Reid's voice shook as he spoke, and his words were barely audible, but from his close proximity Drake could just about make out what had been said.

"That is only because you yourself have lost hope." The Sergeant smiled.

"I am tired…" Reid breathed, as his eyes began to close again, and Drake took a firm hold of his elbow – squeezing it hard. This seemed to have the desired effect, and Reid opened them again – just a crack – looking up at the sergeant through his swollen, bloodshot lids.

"You must drink sir." He implored him – trying to swallow the hard lump in his throat, and his voice quivered as he bit back bitter tears of his own. "If you don't you will surely die – and where would the rest of us be without you then?"

"Here," Jackson said, handing Drake a small cup of water with what looked like some kind of stock in it, "try him with this."

The contents were warm – giving the liquid the consistency of thin soup. It smelt of boiled vegetables and the unmistakable aroma of animal bone – not unpleasant but not particularly appetising either, although he suspected that it was all Reid's stomach could tolerate for now. He supped hungrily at the watery liquid as soon as the tankard was placed against his lips – drinking its contents quickly lest it should be taken away from him again, and only serving to highlight just how desperately hungry he was.

Reid evidently wanted to eat – his body was desperate for the nutrients it was lacking – but sickness had robbed him of an appetite, and the sadness which had taken root in his heart had further stripped him of a desire to eat.

Jackson let him take a few generous gulps of the tepid brew, before gently lowering Sergeant Drake's hands and taking the cup off him again. Reid, although evidently still thirsty, didn't protest, but flopped back down onto the bed – exhausted – and the surgeon covered him over with the blanket, gently lifting both eyelids with a thumb to check their colour, massaging his still slightly swollen glands, and patting him reassuringly on the shoulder.

"It's a start Reid… it's a start." He said as he got carefully to his feet, and began to make his way over to the bedroom door – beckoning Sergeant Drake to follow him. "Rest now."

He then pulled the Sergeant – who appeared reluctant to leave the Inspector's side – aside.

"We'll let him rest for now." He said. "That's the most anyone's managed to get him to drink in days, but I don't want to risk him taking in too much too soon. If he's stomach's unable to handle it it could cause him to vomit and in his current state that could be very dangerous."

The Sergeant nodded in understanding, and Jackson glanced back over at Reid – who appeared to have fallen asleep again. He sighed.

"Your presence seems to have helped a lot today Drake…" He told him. "Would you come again?"

"I would come even if it had been of no help at all." The sergeant nodded. "I've only ever seen him in this state once before…" He explained – a haunted look in his eyes as his thoughts took him back to a time when he hadn't known whether his friend was going to live or die. He'd survived the initial accident by shear miracle alone and every day had brought a change in his condition. Some days had been better than others.

"This isn't like the last time." Jackson reassured him. "Reid's strong, we can get him through this."

"I know." He nodded – although he didn't seem so sure.

"Will you join me in a drink?" The surgeon asked him, but Drake shook his head.

"No, I'd better get back." He said. "Bella will have dinner on the table soon, and she doesn't like to see good food go to waste."

"Well now, aren't you the picture of domestic bliss." Jackson smiled. It was a remark which would have, under normal circumstances, provoked some kind of reaction from the Sergeant, but his heart just wasn't in it tonight – and he could see that neither was Jackson's. It was a passing remark – a force of habit – nothing more.

He smiled.

"Goodnight Jackson." He nodded to the American respectfully as he replaced his hat. "I should like to call again tomorrow, if you would permit it?"

"I thought we had already established that you would receive no protest from me." He shrugged, pouring himself a glass of whisky from an unlabelled bottle. The dark, bronze coloured liquid shimmered like amber in the candlelight, as the Captain swirled it around inside the glass before swallowing it down in one swig.

Drake watched him pour himself another, before turning to leave – hoping for the Inspector's sake that he would be able to keep his drinking to a minimum. For all his medical prowess, and despite the fact that had it not been for him then Reid may very well have already died, the Sergeant still didn't have a huge amount of faith in the American. It wasn't that he doubted his skills – which he had already proven on many occasion to be next to none. He was an adept surgeon, with keen and dexterous fingers whether or not he'd been drinking, he was knowledgeable of chemistry – including of drugs and poison – and kept himself up to date on the latest developments in forensic science. All this combined to make him an ideal police surgeon as well as a practicing medic, but it hadn't been unknown for him to finish an entire bottle of whisky or even cheap gin in a single sitting.

Jackson listened to the Sergeant's footsteps upon the stairs as he descended, and as soon as he heard the front door slam shut behind him he screwed the lid back on the bottle and turned back to Reid, placing a palm to his forehead to check his fever. He thought he felt a little cooler, but was still far too hot and so he took the cold compress, and re-soaked it in the bowl at the side of Reid's bed.

Whilst he was doing this Reid opened his eyes and looked up at him.

"Am I to die Jackson?" He asked of him. "I feel as though the hand of death is upon me."

"I am sure you do Reid." Jackson sighed. "Influenza will do that to a person but coupled with a generous dose of typhus and I'm surprised that you're still around to feel the ravishes of the disease… but, in answer to your question no, you are not going to die, not if I've got anything to do with it. You'll need to stay in bed for a couple more weeks yet though."

"I think I'm going to be sick…" The Inspector said, swallowing hard, but Jackson shook his head.

"No Reid!" He implored him. "You must try to keep a hold of what you have supped tonight. It's important! Your body needs the nourishment. The infection has weakened it significantly and dehydration is your greatest enemy right now."

"I'm not sure I can fight it." Reid gasped, turning slightly green, and clenching his jaw tight in a bid to try to supress his body's natural gag reflex. If it was triggered then he would not be able to stop himself from vomiting and it wasn't just the fact that his body needed every precious drop of the tepid brew he'd managed to drink, but the act alone was physically traumatic and exhausting. He lay in the bed, unmoving for several seconds, until finally Jackson had to remind him to breathe.

"Just take slow, deep breaths Reid." He said, pressing the re-wetted rag to his forehead, and the Inspector naturally leaned in to the surgeon's hand as the cold water soothed his burning furnace of flesh. Inwardly he felt as though there was ice water coursing through his veins, but his skin was on fire. "It'll pass Reid." Jackson reassured him. "Medically speaking there is no longer any reason why you would be sick. It's just going to take your stomach a while to readjust to the sensation of having food in it."

He knew that this wasn't strictly true, vomiting was a perfectly natural physiological response to what his body had been through, and it was quite likely that they hadn't yet seen the end of this unpleasantness – but his words appeared to reassure the Inspector all the same.

Reid took a few shaky breaths – which were a little deeper with each intake – and after a few minutes he finally began to visibly relax – the sick feeling having evidently passed.

"Better?" Jackson asked him.

Reid nodded.

"Yes, thank you Jackson." He replied, eyes already beginning to close again. "Please, forgive me." He slurred. "But it's a sad day when the simple act of breathing exhausts one."

"You're doing just fine Reid." The American assured him, patting him gently on the shoulder as he leaned in closer to get a better look of his patient through the gloom of the small room – the candlelight was beginning to dwindle but he could just about make out the faint flush of pink against pale cheeks as the dying flames flickered and danced around them. "You'll be alright." He said.

"You'd better get off home to your wife Jackson." The Inspector sighed, as he sunk even deeper into his bed, swallowing hard and fighting slightly to try and get comfortable. "She'll be missing you, and I have already kept you away from her for far too long."

"No Reid." Jackson frowned – wondering just how delirious and out of it he was if he believed that he was in any fit state to take care of himself. "I'm not going anywhere. My need as a surgeon is greatest here. Susan knows that." He reassured him. "She understands."

"Family is precious Jackson." Reid mumbled, already succumbing to the sleep which beckoned. "Remember that. She's your wife, and I am… well I am…"

"You are Edmond Reid." Jackson smiled. "Detective Inspector and head of 'H' Division, Whitechapel. You are a leader of a group of men who would be lost without you, a good father, and a good husband, and you are the man who gave me a second chance when nobody else would. Are you seriously going to try and convince me that you are in any way indispensable?" He asked.

"But she's your wife…" Reid whispered weakly – a half-hearted attempt at protest.

"And you're my patient." Jackson implored him. "So, for God's sake Reid, just shut up and rest!"

 **RIPPERSTREET**

Drake visited Reid every day for the next week after that, and with every visit he appeared a little stronger. He was making a conscious effort to eat a little more – although he was sick again a couple more times – but the company of a good friend certainly seemed to take his mind off the pain and his spirits seemed a little improved.

After only a few days he was strong enough to sit up, and as soon as he was able to stand aided Jackson helped him to take a few steps towards the chair in the corner of the room, before returning him to bed. The concern was that he had lost a lot of muscle tone throughout the time he'd been confined to bed, and it would take him a lot longer to recover if he had to rebuild his strength enough to walk as opposed to just enough strength to be able to take care of himself. This very particular brand of therapy became just another part of his daily routine, until, finally he was able to walk unaided, and get himself up and down the stairs without too much risk of him falling.

It was then… and only then… that Jackson finally returned home to the brothel and to Susan – who was more pleased to have her husband back than she would have ever confessed to his face.

It was a further three weeks before Reid was finally able to return to work, and by that time he'd already been away for a little under six weeks. Jackson had told him that he was lucky not to have spent several months out of action and by all standards six weeks could be seen as a relatively quick recovery. He was still a little weak, as he hadn't left the house since he had been initially taken ill until a few days before his return, and the American had also warned him that he would probably find that he tired easily and not to expect too much too soon. A complete recovery would come given time, and as a result he'd been succonded to desk duties only for the first few days – Sergeant Drake had elected to do most of the leg work until he felt a little stronger.

Sergeant Atherton was at his usual position manning the front desk when Reid stepped through the front doors of 'H' Division early on the Monday morning, and as a result was the first person to welcome him back.

"Welcome back sir." He smiled from behind his desk as Reid removed his hat, brushing back his slicked back hair with a somewhat shaky hand as he approached and placed his bowler upon the table before him. He wouldn't confess as much but the short walk into work had quite taken it out of him this morning and he was somewhat relieved to be able to rest a while – leaning surreptitiously against the desk for support as he feigned flicking through the booking log – making note of the arrests made in his absence.

"Sergeant." He nodded respectfully.

"You're still looking a little peaky sir, if you don't mind my say so." The Sergeant remarked after they'd both exchanged the usual pleasantries and he observed the Inspector's stiff gait – the unnatural angle at which he carried himself – and the slowness of his walk, but Reid simply smiled.

"I am as well as I am ever going to be with this Sergeant," He said, indicating his injured shoulder, "and more than well enough to be here. Captain Jackson will be keeping a close eye on me and he has certified me fit enough to be here, you can be assured of that."

"Beg pardon sir." Sergeant Atherton corrected himself – realising that he had overstepped the mark. "But I did not mean to speak out of turn."

"Of course not Sergeant." Reid smiled – picking up his bowler and placing it back upon his head. His words had not carried this meaning, but clearly the Sergeant had taken them as something akin to a reprimand.

"Indeed it is good of you to show concern." Reid continued. "I am not so sure I am deserving of it."

"There are not many men more deserving of it than yourself… after everything you've been through." The Sergeant remarked.

Inspector Reid looked taken aback by the man's words, appearing surprised by the depth of the man's concern, and this time the Sergeant realised that he really had overstepped the mark.

"I'm sorry sir." Atherton apologised. "Tis good to see you looking so well, was my meaning is all." He said, before returning to his work.

"Thank you Sergeant." Reid remarked weakly, hesitating for a moment before turning and heading in the direction of his office. He tried to give off an air of normality – as though the last few weeks hadn't happened, and the influenza and typhus hadn't wreaked havoc on his body – but he was still weak, and no matter how hard he tried to conceal it if any man had looked hard enough there could be no hiding the unsteadiness of his gait as he walked. Thankfully the hour was still early enough that not many had arrived yet, and those who were at their desks were either too tired following a gruelling night shift or too engrossed in their work to pay much attention to Inspector Reid.

As he entered his office he closed the door behind him and sat stiffly down at his desk. The room looked considerably tidier than when he had last been in it, and Reid suspected that Drake had probably had a hand in making sure that it was tidy prior to his return. The makeshift bed had been folded away, and the pile of miscellaneous crime reports and papers appropriately filed in the chest of draws behind his desk.

He felt dizzy and nauseous – and although he wouldn't confess as much he'd began to wonder whether he may have returned to work a little too soon.

At that moment he heard the rattle of the door and looked up in time to see Jackson enter quickly before closing the door behind himself.

"Don't you ever knock?" Reid asked the American.

"What? And give you the chance to refuse me entry?" He asked the Inspector in his thick American drawl – all the more pronounced than it had been of late – made heavier by the alcohol Reid could smell upon his breath and general person, even from this distance. "I came to see how you're feeling." He explained.

"A little tired maybe." Reid confessed. "But overall glad to be back." He smiled.

Jackson nodded. He observed the man with a critical eye – his complexion was still a ghostly shade of white, and far too pale, he swayed as he stood but managed to steady himself without any need of help. In an ideal world Jackson would have recommended another couple of days of rest, but he'd known that Reid wouldn't agree to this, and there really was no physical reason why he shouldn't have returned to work – it was simply now a case of recovering lost strength, which he could do just as easily here sat behind his desk, as he could at home in bed. Even so the physician resolved to keep a close eye on him for the next few days to come.

It was then that Reid noticed the bag in his hand, as he reached down and pulled out a hypodermic.

"What's that for?" The Inspector asked.

"A small dose of mercury." Jackson responded. "Not much – just enough to ward away any further infection."

Reid eyed the needle dubiously, and the doctor suspected that there was a certain degree of reluctance on his part to take any further drugs now that he was feeling well enough to do without their influence. He was still naturally wary of their addictive properties, and even the general effect they had on his body provided a painful reminder of the months he'd spent totally reliant upon them to help him cope with the pain in his mangled shoulder, when the wound had still been fresh and raw. He looked as though he may have been about to say something when another knock came upon the door.

"Yes?" Reid called out to whomever was on the other side – and Sergeant Drake entered.

"Sir." He smiled, evidently pleased to see his friend, finally back where he belonged – and Jackson decided that it was probably best that he leave the two men to it.

"Come see me later to get that injection Reid." He reminded him – eyebrows raised, emphasizing how important it was that he receive the medication – as he opened to the door to leave, and the Inspector looked at him and nodded. He tipped his head to Drake in acknowledgment as he left, and the Sergeant returned the gesture in a manner of sorts – but the gesture was a forced one. Communication was still strained between them and Reid could see that it was done more out of show than as a mark of any genuine respect between the two men.

He got gingerly to his feet and made his way over the window – looking down at the street below, lost in melancholic thought.

When Jackson had left and Drake had closed the door behind him, he turned back to face the Inspector.

"You asked to see me sir?" He frowned. "As soon as I arrived, the telegram said?"

Reid nodded.

"Yes Bennett." He sighed – still not turning back to look at him. He spoke quietly, and still sounded somewhat despondent. Drake could see that although now physically on the mend it was going to take Reid a lot longer to recover from the emotional effects of the sickness which, as they'd seen evidence of over the past few weeks, had worn him down in mind as well as body. "I wanted to ask you something…"

He paused before continuing, but Drake waited patiently to hear what he had to say.

"When you told me that the only reason I couldn't feel Matilda anymore was because I had lost hope, did you mean what you said?" He finally asked him.

Sergeant Drake looked at him, somewhat taken aback by the nature of the question for a moment - whatever he might have been expecting he certainly hadn't been expecting this. The Inspector had been in such a bad way when he'd said this to him that he was surprised that he could recall any of that particular conversation at all – and truth be told he'd have said anything then if he'd thought it might rally Reid to fight. He didn't hold any of the answers, and the last thing he wanted was to give his friend false hope.

On the other hand he himself had never given up hope that they would find the little girl alive.

"I believe that there is always hope sir," He answered honestly, "and I think that as long as there is no body to be found we have to entertain the possibility that she might still be alive and out there somewhere waiting for us to find her."

Reid nodded.

"Thank you Bennett." He said, taking an uneasy breath. "Of course you're right. I am her father, if I don't continue to fight for her who will?"

"Will you be ok sir?" Drake asked, concerned. The Inspector still hadn't turned around to face him and he could hear the emotional break in his voice as he spoke.

"I will now Sergeant…" He responded, but he was silent for rather a long time after that.

Drake wasn't entirely sure whether that was his cue to leave, and so he stayed, not wanting to leave his friend alone unless he requested it.

When Reid eventually turned back around to face him there were tears in his eyes, but he appeared slightly more composed than he had done a few moments before. Although his hold upon his emotions was weak he seemed to have found strength enough to rein them in somewhat, and exercise some degree of the control usually attributable to him.

Inspector Reid was not an hysterical character by nature, and it usually took a great deal to provoke an overtly emotional response.

"I nearly gave up on her Bennett." He explained sadly. "My own little girl. I would have given up on her, if it wasn't for you. I was quite ready to accept death, to let oblivion flood over me and take away all the pain – but then you reminded me of what I'd been fighting for all these years. You reminded me of the one thing which meant more to me than any of my own suffering. You pulled me back from the brink…"

"I just couldn't see you give up so easily Edmund." Drake said – his own eyes now glistening with a film of excess fluid. "You're not a quitter…"

"Yes, but I confess to losing my way for a while." Reid shook his head.

"If she is out there we'll find her sir!" Drake said, trying to sound more confident about this than he actually felt. "If there is one thing I am assured of it is that!"

He wanted to believe his own words so badly. Reid could never know how much he too also cared for the little girl. One of the lesser known facts about Bennett Drake was that he too had always wanted children, and, having none of his own as of yet, he had doted on Matilda from the day that she'd been born. She was the daughter of his best friend, and as such to him as like any daughter of his own.

He forced a smile, and Reid returned the gesture in kind – all be it in a very weak and watery fashion.

"Have I ever told you Bennett how thankful I am to call you my friend?" He asked him.

Drake laughed.

"No sir." He shook his head – at least not since he'd been a regular visitor of the Inspector's in the hospital during the weeks following his receipt of the crippling injury had he voiced his thoughts in so many words. "Have I ever told you how thankful I am to call you mine?" He asked.

Although it was true that neither man voiced the mutual love and respect they felt for each other very often it was because there was very little need. Bennett Drake was a man of very little words, and because of Edmund Reid's position in the police force it wouldn't do for him to show too much emotion - but they had come through a lot together over the years, and both were as close as it was possible for two men to be.

Neither really knew whether Matilda could have survived the boating disaster which had nearly killed her father, and had torn her parent's lives apart. Neither man had any of the answers.

But, in this case, a fools hope really was better than no hope at all, and so both men opened their hearts to what the head said was impossible - and, as they had resolved to do a very long time ago, dealt with everything else life had to throw at them one day at a time.


End file.
